The Tenant
by ElaineAstolat
Summary: What if Mrs. Hudson was a young woman who escapes an abusive marriage, instead of an old matron? The back story up to present of how Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock meet, become landlady and tenant, and their continuing relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat in the office waiting room, bored to death and mindlessly listening to the telly, which was reporting some trivial murder case in Florida. He wouldn't be at the doctor's at all, but he had accidentally his foot while testing a murder weapon in the last case he had worked on, and he couldn't take a step without searing pain now.

He glanced at the clock on the wall again. Ridiculous that someone could keep him waiting so long. He was tempted to just keep walking on the foot, but then he thought better. He had already put up with it for long enough. Why were appointments made if the doctors couldn't keep them. He let out a frustrated huff.

The woman sitting across from him sat forward, watching the ongoing report on the screen with wide eyes, and her hand nervously moving across her mouth.

Suddenly curious, Sherlock observed a few more seconds, his eyes flitting back and forth between the reporter on the screen and the woman observing.

"You know something about this, don't you?" He abruptly asked.

She looked up, surprised that he was making conversation. Her eyes filled with fear, and she looked toward the door that patients walked though toward the exam rooms. She quickly shook her head.

"No, of course not. It's just an awful thing is all. Poor woman."

She was lying. He could tell that for sure. He quickly thought through the specifics of the case on the telly. A young woman in Florida murdered. Typical spring break stupidity, he had thought. Young girl gets drunk, stays out too late and gets into trouble. Happened all the time with these Americans. How could this woman in London be so affected by it?

He glanced over the woman sitting across from him. He guessed her to be about 27 or 28. She was in good shape, and pretty, though not extraordinarily. Her makeup and clothing told that she put a lot of effort into looking attractive. She wore an expensive engagement and wedding ring set, though the way she held her hand said that she was uncomfortable with the largeness of the rock. She had not picked it out herself, and her husband was obviously more interested in showing off his wealth than caring what his fiance, now wife, thought about the style. Unavoidable from his notice, was a fading bruise across her left cheek bone, and dark, fresher bruises about her right wrist. She continually pulled her jacket down to cover her wrist, but the sleeve was slightly too short to do a proper job at this.

Before he could make any more deductions about her, the door opened and a nurse appeared, holding the door for the exiting patient.

"We'll see you in a couple weeks, Mr. Hudson. Take care of that hand now."

The patient, a man in his mid-to-late thirties, and well dressed, stepped out, his hand wrapped in a cast.

He looked between Sherlock and the woman, giving her an angry glare.

"Alright, Martha, let's get out of here." She stood, but he grabbed her harshly by the elbow and guided her out with his good hand.

"Mr. Holmes?" the nurse glanced from her clipboard to Sherlock.

"Sorry, I think I'll have to reschedule." Sherlock said. With that, he put on his coat and followed the couple back out onto the street.


	2. Second Meetings

Sherlock waited until he heard the thud of the door closing, and the footsteps fading away. He then rounded the corner and promptly rapped on the apartment door.

"Did you forget someth..." Mrs. Hudson began, and then faded off as she realized that it was Sherlock, and not her husband at the door. She gasped and pulled her robe more tightly about her.

"You? What are you doing here? How did you find me?" She quickly closed the door to a crack and placed her slim body firmly against the other side, as if that would keep Sherlock out.

"You know something about the case. The woman in Florida. I know you do." Sherlock answered. He had spent all night researching what the American media had put out about the murder, and then further researching all he could find on the victim. She had studied abroad in London, which only confirmed Sherlock's suspicions.

"I already told you, I know nothing." The woman's voice was shaking. "Now leave before I call the police. Or my husband! He's close enough to turn around and come back here right now!" She threatened.

"I am the police." he told her. A slight lie, but oh well. "And you won't call your husband to come beat me up. Him leaving is the best part of your day, and from what I gather, he already has someone to beat up."

"Excuse me?" The woman opened the door, and glared at him angrily. "How dare you!"

"Oh, so I take it those bruises across your chest, wrist, and face, are from..."

"I'm naturally clumsy."

"Of course. Oldest line in the book. You might at least try to get a little creative. Now, might I come in? I could use a strong cup of coffee."

He didn't wait for her, but pushed his way in.

The apartment was meticulously well kept. Everything was clean and in its place, except for the kitchen chair which had been knocked over in Mr. Hudson's morning fit of rage, which Sherlock had overheard from his waiting spot.

"How's your right cheek, by the way?" He reached out and touched her face, causing her to flinch in pain. "Thought so. Pitiful excuse for a man."

"If he finds out anyone has been here...you must leave this instant!" The woman insisted.

"Look, I'm trying to help here. You can make it easy, or you can make it more difficult."

"I'm dialing the police now." was her shaking response.

"All right, all right." I already have everything I need anyway.

"Sorry? Don't understand?" she wrapped her arms protectively over her chest.

"The suitcase though the bedroom. It has a tag on it from the Orlando airport. Your husband just got back from a business trip there. The new shot glass in his collection on your shelf there is from the same bar the young woman in Florida disappeared from. And, if I hadn't overheard your husband's violence this morning, the way you flinched when I went to touch your face would have told me enough. I despise men who beat their wives, Martha. I don't know why you would defend such a man, except out of fear, which must be the case. If you decide to change your mind and be more helpful, you can find me at this address." He pulled out a business card and handed it to her, before striding out the door that she had been holding open.

"Maiden name is Hudson, is it? Not associated with the Hudsons on Grand Street, by any chance?" He asked over his shoulder.

"How did you...?"

"The wedding embroidery on your wall." he answered impatiently, though he was almost too far down the stairwell for her to hear by then.

Martha stood in shock for a moment, shaking with the fear that her husband would find out about her conversation with this man, and even more dreadfully, what he would do if he found out that she had allowed him into their apartment.


	3. What Happened in Florida

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!" a woman's cry accompanied by a knock on the door pulled Sherlock from his examination of a fly's wing under the microscope. "Help me, please!"

He opened the door to find Mrs. Taylor standing there, eyes frantic and arm hanging at a haphazard angle. The right side of her face was swollen and bleeding. Her hair was mussed and she wore no shoes. She kept throwing looks behind her, as if to see whether or not she had been followed.

Sherlock immediately pulled her inside and shut and locked the door behind her.

"I've changed my mind. I will tell you everything." She hung her head in shame and continued to tremble violently.

"Take a deep breath, Mrs. Hudson. You are safe now, I can assure you. Come sit down." He led her into the tiny living space of his studio flat and gently directed her to the couch. He gently pulled the fabric of her sweater away to examine the specifics of the break in her arm, and then pulled out his mobile.

"Yes, send Dr. Jones to my apartment. I have a patient who cannot make it to the hospital." A pause. "Would I be calling you at 11:00 at night asking this if it _weren't_ urgent?" He huffed and ended the call.

"I'm glad you've finally allowed me to assist you, Mrs. Hudson. I only wish that it hadn't taken such extreme measures to bring you here.

"I...I didn't know what he would do if he found out I blabbed on him." Mrs. Hudson choked between sobs.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and narrowed his eyes. "This is not the worst he's ever taken things out on you, and yet, here you are. What's different about tonight?" he wondered aloud.

"How could you possibly know this is not the worst?" She asked defensively.

"You stayed with the bully through much worse. It's obvious. You walk with a slightly uneven gait and wince sometimes when you place your weight on your left hip. He pushed you down the stairs or something like, causing your hip to break. I would guess this occurred about a year ago, and yet, you did not seek medical attention, likely because of the questions that would have been asked. No, instead you allowed your hip to heal on its own, but it did not heal properly; thus your uneven walk. And then there's the scar above your forehead. You wear your bangs pulled to the right to cover this. This is a recent change in your hair routine, as your hair still naturally pulls to the left. This injury I would approximate occurred six months ago approximately, to say nothing of the recent bruises on your face and arms. Shall I go on?"

The young woman shook her head quickly, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. He had brought up emotional trauma that she had never confessed to anyone. Sherlock gathered that she was rarely allowed out of the apartment, except under her husband's close supervision. No one had dared to question the injuries in front of his powerful persona.

"No, this is _not _the worst he's done to you, and yet something made you break, excuse the rather vulgar metaphor. Something else pushed you here tonight."

Mrs. Hudson looked down at the floor, avoiding eye contact and refusing to respond to his conclusion.

"I thought you were going to cooperate now."

"I'm here about what my husband has done to _other _people, Mr. Holmes, not myself." She responded quietly but firmly. Her sobs had stopped by now.

Sherlock's interview was interrupted by another knock at the door. He answered it and returned with a tired looking doctor, still in his lab coat and carrying a medical bag.

"Don't ask questions, Doctor Jones, just do you job." Sherlock ordered, pointing him toward Mrs. Hudson. Jones rolled his eyes, but knelt in front of the patient and began to examine the arm.

"Now. Tell me about Florida, Martha." Sherlock probed.

"Mae. My friends call me Mae. He insists that it sounds too ordinary and calls me Martha." She sighed, and continued her story. "I knew that he'd been having affairs. There were the late nights out, the frequent business trips, and his insatiable desire to always have _more_. He gets what he wants. We were married six years ago, right out of college. It was the talk of the town. _Everyone_ was there. Just like he wanted it. I had seen warning signs...red flags...but he was also so sweet to me then. After we were married, I was hardly useful any more. The daughter of the rival company had been acquired, followed by his combining the companies and becoming right hand to the CEO. He grew bored of me. He didn't try to hide his affairs. He threw them in my face. It was as though he were challenging me to stand up to him. When I did, I discovered his violent side." Mae stopped, her eyes focusing elsewhere, her mind buried in the painful memories. Sherlock gave her a moment. She had told him nothing so far that he had not already guessed.

"Florida, Mrs. Hudson. Tell me about Florida."

"He had come home covered in blood one night. It was splattered on his shirt, his face." She said, still in horror at the recollection. "I thought...he's start to beat them too...but it was _too much._ I knew she, whoever she was, had not survived. And then I saw it in the paper the next day. She was so young. She had disappeared from a bar near her uni. They never found her, but _I_ knew who had done this."

Sherlock shifted, waiting for more. Mrs. Hudson came out of her trance and met his eyes again.

"Florida was the third time this has happened, Mr. Holmes. You were right about my husband's involvement with the girl in Florida. I don't know how you figured that out. I don't know you at all, but I hope that you can guarantee that this is the last time he will get away with this. Four lives. It's too many." Her eyes were still wide in fear, and her trembling had only slowed, not stopped. Dr. Jones had finished setting her arm. She had barely flinched when he had snapped the bone back into place. Sherlock's blood boiled to consider that this type of pain was hardly new to her. He dismissed Dr. Jones with a nod. Thankfully the man was used to Sherlock's odd requests, and mostly followed his orders without question due to all of the patients the detective had brought him.

"Rest now, Mrs. Hudson. You are safe here, and I can assure you that Florida _was _the last."

It was past 1 a.m., and Mrs. Hudson's eyes were beginning to flutter closed. The adrenaline of her flight was beginning to wear off. She did not argue when he dropped a pillow on the edge of the couch and a blanket on the other. He seemed to do this stiffly, and without feeling, though the action itself indicated at least some degree of care. He turned his back to her stiffly, and sat back at his desk, while she pulled the knitted throw over her and settled into the first peaceful slumber she had experienced in six years. Despite the evening's events, something about the tall man sitting at the desk across from her gave her more assurance than she could have guessed. Something made her trust this complete stranger more than she had been able to trust a man in a long time. With these thoughts, she drifted off to sleep.


	4. The clues, Mrs Hudson, the clues

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When Mae Hudson woke up the next morning, she found a duffel by the edge of the couch she had slept on. It was full of her clothes from home. She sat up sleepily, and looked about the tiny flat. Sherlock was gone.

Upon standing and stretching, she noticed a note on the table.

"Do **not **leave this apartment for any reason. You are safe here. Your husband is in custody, just working out the finer details."

-SH

Mae buried her face in her hands, at a total loss that a stranger would go though so much to bring justice to this situation.

She felt odd being alone in his flat, or being in it at all. She began to really take in the conditions that she found herself in, and discovered that the flat was downright filthy. Clutter was piled up everywhere. There was an overflowing sink full of dirty dishes, take-away bins scattered about, old newspapers here and there, and a thick coat of dust on top of everything. Not to mention, inexplicably random and odd things like the skull on the bookshelf – which appeared to be very much real. There were also jars of human bits that caused her stomach to curdle. Most of the books on the floor and shelves were scientific. Apparently this man was not one for fiction – although there was sheet music piled on the shelves as well, indicating that he did have some taste for the fine arts. She also discovered a violin laying in an open case in the corner. This was the one item in the apartment that appeared well-cared for, though obviously worn.

She could not figure out this man. He was cold, extremely intelligent, and more..._intense_ than anyone she had ever met. To be so intense without much feeling – that was what seemed the strangest to her. Her husband had been very intense, but his feeling of anger had been just as strong. He was aways showing emotion – unlike this detective.

Well, if there was nothing else to do, she might as well clean for him. It was the least she could do to return his favor of putting her up for the night. She only hoped that he wouldn't mind the change to his flat. Some people liked things just-so.

When Sherlock returned at 11 pm that night, all the lights in the flat were off, and he could make out the soft form of Mrs. Hudson laying on the couch, curled up on her side, and facing him with closed eyes. He flicked on the lights. The entire flat was shockingly spick-and-span. In his absence she had washed all of his dishes, dusted, swept, mopped, and scrubbed the entire place – floor to ceiling. He stepped into the bathroom and saw the same treatment had occurred there.

He walked toward her and stood over the couch. She didn't move, though her hand was clenched tightly about her waist.

"He's on his way to America." He told her loudly. "And don't think I'm being rude. I know you aren't asleep."

Mae shifted slowly, turning to face him.

"America? And _how_ could you possibly know I wasn't sleeping? I'm beginning to think you're just making things up." She wanted to add a bit about him coming off as rude still, but she wasn't sure how he would respond – and she couldn't call the man who had put her up for the night, assured her protection, and locked her husband up rude.

Sherlock sighed annoyedly, "Of course I'm human, Mrs. Hudson. It's the clues, always the clues. Your teacup on the table is still warm and only half-drunk. The dish-rag in the sink is still dripping wet, indicating that it was just used, and the bathroom tile is still too damp to indicate that it has been very long since it was mopped." he continued. "Your breathing was irregular also, and your eyes are still puffed and pink. Most people's faces also don't betray the physical pain they are in when they are sleeping."

Mae drew in a sharp breath and averted her eyes, embarrassed to have been surveyed so closely.

"How far along were you?" he asked gently.

Mae Hudson lifted her head in shock. "Excuse me?"

"The baby, Mrs. Hudson. How far along?"

"How...?" She shook her head and gave up on the question.

"That was what brought you to my door that night. _Not_ that your husband had harmed you again. You were used to that. It was nothing new. What _was_ new, was that this time he had not only harmed you, but caused you to lose the one thing that mattered in your life now... your child. I first suspected when you said that _four _lives had been taken, but had only mentioned the three women he had been involved with. Then I picked up on the way you held your lower abdomen, most women begin this habit when they are with child. Then I remembered the vitamins in your apartment. You wouldn't have taken those for your own account – you didn't value your life or health enough to take them for your own good. They obviously weren't your husbands – his lifestyle would show otherwise. You were taking them for your child.

"Your husband came home early the night you showed up at my door. He had an episode- attacked you, and this time he hit you where it hurt the most, unbeknown to him. You were afraid. You knew you were in danger of losing the baby, and that on the off-chance that it would survive a pregnancy in such a violent place to begin with, you would then have the child to raise in that environment. You fled here. When I was out the today, your husband's actions caused your worst fear to come true. You miscarried the child – alone – by yourself, on my bathroom floor. You were not merely being kind and cleaning my apartment for me – you were covering the tracks by bleaching blood from the tiles. _That _is why you clutch about your waist and _that _is why your eyelids are still swollen...And now, I'm calling Bart's. You are in need an ambulance."

Silent tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and she allowed the physical pain she was in to show fully on her face. She felt so exposed and vulnerable. The stranger now knew not only about how her husband had physically abused her for years, but also the very private loss that she had suffered this afternoon. This man definitely did not have a gentleness with words or a way with people, but he picked up on _everything. _

Sherlock did not put his arm around her or offer words of sympathy. That was not something he had talent at. People crying made him feel slightly uncomfortable. It was best to leave them to their emotions, he always figured. He certainly would not be able to make things better. He left her on the couch and went to stand outside and smoke while he called for an ambulance. As he walked to the door he could not help but clench his fist in anger.

He hated being right in situations like these, and he wished that Mr. Hudson were still in the vicinity so that he could show him exactly the same pain that he had caused his wife to go through today. As it was, there were already some inexplicable injuries on Mr. Hudson's person that Sherlock had merely feigned ignorance about when the police had arrived.

What was it about this woman that made him feel so...well, _feel _at all. It made him uncomfortable indeed. Something about her made him want to protect her from the world. Her soft brown eyes... so full of pain. _No, _he told himself. This was merely how he felt about all women – that they should be treated with respect and protected and cared for by the men in their lives. Any man who behaved as her husband had was not a man at all. That's all. Sherlock shook off the feeling in the pit of his stomach that he could not quite put a name to, and went on with his task of dialing for the hospital.


	5. Moving On (to 221 Baker Street)

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Three days later, Mae stood in her apartment, taking in her surroundings in a new night. She had just returned from testifying at her husband's trial. It had been a relief to see him in handcuffs, though the way he glared at her still made her shiver in fear. She sighed. All that was behind her now. She shouldn't even allow thoughts of him to enter her mind.

She hadn't wanted to even be at the trial, but they said that her testimony was vital after having been married to him for all these years. Also, her report on his physical abuse would help give further indication to the man's character. Thankfully Sherlock had been there, and he had done most of the talking for her.

Now that she stood in the flat that she and her husband had shared, she new that things were turning for the better. She needed to get a new place, however. That was a decision she made almost immediately. There were too many memories associated with this place. She would look for a place very soon.

After that decision, everything came more easily. A sudden surge of energy filled her and she attacked the apartment – chucking most of the things that belonged to her husband, along with sentimental things like wedding memoirs or gifts. As she purged her life of his memory, she felt control coming back to her, and her spirits lifting. She was _free_ and she could now do whatever she wished with her life!

She had no friends in London, due to the fact that her husband had never allowed her to leave the apartment without his chaperoning her. That didn't matter any more. She was only 27. She could start over.

As she cleaned and re-organized, and put the things she wanted to keep in boxes, thoughts of the odd detective kept coming back to her mind. She owed him so much, but even after her short acquaintance with him she knew he would not appreciate gushing gratitude. He seemed almost mechanical sometimes, though she had experienced glimpses of gentility from him as well.

A month later Mae found herself setting up house at 221 Baker Street. She had found the three-flat complex in the paper, and after selling the one that she had shared with her husband, she used the money to purchase this set of flats. The condition of them was not half as grand as what she was used to – but it was hers, all hers. She could decorate how she pleased, arrange things she pleased, and come and go as she pleased.

She had set up her living quarters in 221A – the flat on the ground level. The realtor had assured her that she could bring in some extra cash flow by letting out the flat above her, 221B, but that the one below her would be difficult to let, considering its shabby conditions.

Mae was finding it easier and easier to forget about her husband. At first the news story had popped up on the telly occasionally, and Mae had promptly turned the channel.

She spent her time arranging her house, decorating in soft bright colors that reflected her newly lifted spirits. She also began to cook and bake for the pure enjoyment of it. She no longer had to worry about what her husband would say if something didn't turn out quite right or if dinner was late. She knew that she would eventually have to look for a job, and put an ad in the papers about 221B, but she wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of living _alone_ for a bit.

Later that afternoon Mae's phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Your husband is dead. It is done," came Sherlock's voice on the other end.

Mae's heart stopped for a second. She didn't know what to feel, what to think, it was so sudden. Well, she knew it had been coming, but still.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked waiting to see if she were still there.

"Y-yes. Thank you for telling me."

"Have you moved?" he asked. Mae wondered if he had somehow followed her like he had on the first night they had met.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"The sirens in the background. You weren't close enough to a main street to hear them previously."

"Yes, I needed a bit of a change." She admitted.

"Right. Best be off." Sherlock replied hurriedly, as if he hadn't heard what she had just said, and had more pressing matters to attend to.

The next day Mae headed toward toward 221 Baker Street, arms full of groceries from the super market, only to find movers stacking boxes by the front door.

"Excuse me," she said to one of the movers. "But I think you must have the wrong address. This is _221 _Baker Street." As if the number on the door weren't enough.

The mover pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and checked it. "Yup, says right here 221 Baker Street.

"Well there must be some mistake. I am the owner of the address, and the sole occupant." She continued determinedly.

"Just following my orders, ma'am."

Mae huffed and went up the steps to unlock the door, trying to figure out how to get to the bottom of this.

"Here, let me help you with that." a deep voice behind her startled her, and suddenly her keys were being taken out of her hands.

Mae jerked around to discover Sherlock Holmes taking her keys and calmly letting her into the building.

"You!" she huffed. "Is that was all this is? What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"I should think it was rather obvious, Mrs. Hudson. You are in need of a tenant. I am here to fill that occupancy. Now, which flat is mine?"

Mae felt her face growing heated. He had gone to far this time. The person she had known to be kind and gentle, though a bit odd, was now displaying that he was completely off his rocker.

"STOP!" she told the mover who was about to come through the doorway with the boxes, now that it had been unlocked.

"Those are not going upstairs!" she directed him. The man looked confusedly back and forth between her and Mr. Holmes.

"Ah, so it's 221C that'll be mine. Go on up." he nodded the man on.

"You've changed a bit." Sherlocked noted to her. Mae felt flustered, and still angry, she touched her hair with her free hand and shifted the grocery back on her hip with the other.

"No, not your hair, Mrs. Hudson, your confidence. I don't think you would've stood up to me like this when I first met you. Well done."

Now Mae felt her face growing another shade of red and was still unsure how to take in this absurd man and his flattery.

"Yes, well. Things are a bit different now that it's just me. You still need to explain yourself, though, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please. Now that we'll be living in such proximity, let's rid ourselves of the formalities now, Mae."

"Stop this confusion and tell me what you are doing moving into my apartment please!" She sputtered.

"Simple." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "When I spoke to you on the phone I discovered you had moved. A quick glance at the recent papers told me which spaces were available for rent and sale in your price range. This is the only one that fit all of the criteria and was close enough to the police to hear the sirens that I did during our conversation. I discovered that the property that you had purchased consisted of three flats, and obviously you only need one. I deduced that you would be planning on letting out the others. I am tired of my studio flat and desiring something larger and I thought I would save you the trouble of putting an advertisement out, and just take one of the extra flats. Satisfied?"

Mae stood speechless for a second.

"So you're doing this to save me the _trouble_ are you?" She questioned at length.

"And myself of course. It's much better to know your land-lord, or lady as the case may be. I also already know that you are an excellent housekeeper from the way that you cared for my flat that night, and that you will be a kind person to live near. Any more questions, or can I get on with moving in?"

Mae placed her hand on her hip and returned, "it just so happens that I was taking some time to myself before letting that flat out."

"Let's not kid ourselves, Mrs. Hudson. You have no friends yet, and company is the first thing you need to survive on your own. I'm merely helping you get a step closer to recovery."

Sherlock took a step further toward the stairs and began to remove his scarf.

"I hope you don't mind the violin, by the way. I play it sometimes." He flung over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs. "Also, you should know that I can be a rather difficult person to get along with. Like you, I have no friends." and with that, he let himself into 221B.

Mae continued to stand there and shake her head. "Difficult" was putting it lightly, and she had a feeling that this might be just the tip of the iceberg.


End file.
